


a cold and broken hallelujah

by curiositykilled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, Demon Dean Winchester, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Season/Series 09, could be read as pre-destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 9 sort of fix-it where Dean's a demon but stays with Cas and Sam in the bunker</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cold and broken hallelujah

           Castiel misses it at first. He sees Dean, but he’s got enough grace to see what’s under his skin, too. It floods his vision, leaves him nauseous with the roiling black hatred-guilt-vengeance- _evil_ snarling behind should-be-green eyes. He doubles over, heaving bile from his empty stomach onto the floor. A broad hand comes down gently on his back, and Sam frets over him until he gets Castiel settled on the couch. Dean has disappeared by then, but Castiel can still smell the lingering hint of sulphur. It’s enough to make his chest twist and tighten like a giant winch is cranking in at his sternum.

           Dean’s soul is gone. That beautiful pulsar of goodness and grace, unsnuffable in the labyrinth of Hell, has been burnt to ash. The Righteous Man has fallen.

           They don’t see each other much after that. Dean seems to be avoiding him, and Castiel can’t bring himself to find him. Sam’s frown grows heavier, more permanent with every day. He seems wary of curing Dean, and despite himself, Castiel can’t help a little relief. He has watched the Winchesters die for each other so very many times, and even if Dean is gone, he would want Castiel to watch out for Sam.

           He throws himself into it. His stolen grace festers and spoils inside him, but he makes sure Sam sleeps and eats and occasionally leaves the bunker. Neither of them are in the best of shape, but they’re alive. Castiel counts it as a success.

           He doesn’t see Dean till Sam is out getting groceries, a month since it all fell apart. He stumbles on Dean, literally. The former hunter is crouched with his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed in the middle of the hallway. Sourness scrambles up Castiel’s throat at the darkness churning within its vessel, and he scrambles backwards on hands and knees.

           Dean’s eyes had snapped open and he’d leaned forward as if to catch Castiel. When he backpedals, Dean’s arms drop with his shoulders, and he looks away.

           “Sorry,” he mutters. “Devil’s trap. I forget sometimes.”

           Dean gestures upwards and Castiel catches sight of the familiar symbol painted on the ceiling. His vessel can barely support him on solid ground, much less on a ladder, but part of him still screams to help Dean. It wants to rescue him, to break him free of that painted cage. Another part, the cold angelic part that never quite left, says no. It says that, if Dean was meant to be out of the trap, he wouldn’t have gotten caught in the first place.

           “Cas? Cas, you okay?”

           Dean’s voice breaks into his focus, but it isn’t what causes him to move. There’s something else, the faintest glimmer in the dark. _How?_ Castiel can’t draw in a single breath.

           “Cas? Cas!” Dean snaps.

           He waves a hand in front of Castiel’s face, but it’s worry on his face rather than anger.

           “Your soul,” Castiel breathes.

           Dean stares.

           The oily darkness still rolls, overwhelming, under his skin; it binds a knot tighter and tighter in Castiel’s stomach. Underneath it, though, there is a flicker of white. There is a hint of pure, unadulterated divinity glowing in the shadows of the demon. It is the smallest drop of grace in a valley of death, and Castiel can feel the tiny fragment of his own grace still inside him surge forward. If there was enough left, it would call hosannas to all the Host, but it is too shattered to offer much. It sings out a broken hallelujah over and over with all the strength of possessive, undeniable joy.

           “The hell are you talking about, Cas?” Dean prompts. “My soul’s gone.”

           There’s hope in his voice, tightly reined-in like hoping he can hope is too dangerous. Castiel can’t let that stubborn flicker of light out of his sight.

           “I have some calls to make,” he says.

           He straightens slowly, and Dean watches with pure confusion.

           “Don’t give up, Dean. Don’t you dare give up,” Castiel says. “All is not lost.”

           Then he’s off. There are those who still know them. Those who fought alongside Castiel to raise Dean from Hell, those who know the hunters Cas and Dean.  They will come. They have to.

           For the first time in years, in eons, Castiel feels hope budding in his heart. Dean is not gone. The Righteous Man may have fallen, but his soul strives on.

           Hallelujah, amen.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this makes no sense, but whatever. This might actually be my first ever Supernatural fic, so I'm just gonna' post it and run away.


End file.
